THE PEAR
David B. McCoy
At the poetry workshop, I presented a poem with the line, “During the late summer when he hands me a ripe pear, I like to hold it upside down like a woman’s uterus.” After a long pause, an attractive middle-aged woman said, “I think you should explore that image more, you’re holding something back.” I tried to tell her it’s just an analogy I once read and have always wanted to use. That night, uteruses appeared in my dreams--flying in and out--hovering like UFO’s above my head. Finding it impossible to sleep, I got up to eat a pear. I marvelled at how sweet the juices were.
